One day, as he was rising to politely take his leave, she could no longer bear it. Suddenly, she pushed aside the screen that stood between them, confronting him directly. Her voice, despite her best efforts, trembled slightly: “Why? Why!”
Amidst the crash of the screen, the departing man paused slightly and looked at her.
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t offer any explanation, only those three words.
Yes, as a young man in his prime, he had once vowed eternal loyalty. He had crossed mountains and rivers for her, risking his life without regret. If he could, he would have kept that love alive forever, as bright and fresh as it once was. But in the torrent of time and the shifting of fate, he found that he could no longer hold on until the end.
He looked at her, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, never looking back.
Outside, the sky was gray and cold, with faint snowflakes falling and settling on his coat.
Every time it snowed, he couldn’t help but think of that woman in purple. In the past eight years, they had spent only a few nights together, but he remembered clearly that in the final days at Medicine Valley, there had been seven snowy nights. He could never forget the moment he woke in the snow-covered valley: the silent world, the falling plum blossoms, the firelight illuminating the sleeping woman’s face, peaceful and warm—
That was all he had ever wanted in life.
But on that snowy night, when he suddenly received everything he had dreamed of, he lost it just as quickly. All that remained was a faint warmth in his memory, enough to keep him through the long, lonely years to come.
Another year of Jiangnan snow had arrived.
I wonder if the white plum tree in Medicine Valley, by the banks of the Mohe River, has quietly bloomed again? The jar of wine buried beneath it is now empty. In the snowy night sky, perhaps only that blue-haired physician remains, playing that lonely melody, "Geseng"?
“Winter nights, summer days. After a hundred years, we all return to our resting place.”
—But after a hundred years, where would he return to?
In the distant north, on the frozen Mohe River, the cold wind cut like a blade, howling like the cries of ghosts.
A deserted village, a snow-covered cemetery, and a man who had knelt before the grave for a long time.
“….” Frozen, pale fingers slowly reached out, touching the cold gravestone. A large ring adorned his forefinger, with a red gemstone gleaming brightly in the snow.
“Sister… Xue Huai.” The man in black robes raised his head, his voice filled with an unusual fervor as he gazed at the snow-covered gravestone. His pupils were as black as night, but the whites of his eyes had a faint, eerie blue tint. He spoke softly, “I’ve come to see you.”
Only the howling wind answered him.
“Sister Xiao Ye, I’ve come to ask for your forgiveness,” the Holy Leader in black gently brushed the snow from the gravestone, whispering, “One month from now, the ‘Breaking Formation’ plan will begin, and I will launch a full-scale war against Dingjian Pavilion.”
Still, only the cold wind of Mohe replied, whistling past his ears like mournful cries.
“Holy Leader.” A subordinate, standing far off, bowed deeply and reminded him respectfully, “We’ve received word that a once-in-a-century snowstorm is about to descend on Mohe. It would be wise for you to leave soon.”
The Holy Leader in black finally stood up, silently turning away from the gravestone and walking through the abandoned village toward the main road.
Suddenly, the faint sound of clashing metal reached his ears—he stopped, slightly startled, and glanced toward an empty house. He recognized it: this was the place that had haunted his nightmares as a child. After more than a decade, the birch bark roof had collapsed under the weight of the snow, and the wind swept in freely. Two iron shackles hung from the wall, clanking together, producing a piercing sound.
He stumbled and for a moment revealed a pained expression.
In that instant, memories of his distant, almost unreal childhood flooded his mind: the endless black nights and the pair of bright eyes shining in the darkness… She called him “little brother” and held his hand as they played, chasing each other across the frozen river—how much would it cost to relive that brief moment of joy in his life again?
How he longed to stay in that memory forever, but no one could ever go back.
“Winter nights, summer days. After a hundred years, we all return to our resting place.”
Those who had once given him warmth had already returned to the cold earth forever. And he, after a long journey, had ascended to the pinnacle of power. So lonely, yet so proud.
Power was a vicious tiger—once you mounted it, it was impossible to dismount easily. He had no choice but to keep feeding this beast, driving it to devour more people, to seek out more blood to satisfy it, ensuring that it would not turn back and devour him instead. He could already see in the previous Holy Leader the fate that awaited him at the end of his life.
A myriad of emotions flickered through Tong’s eyes as he stood in silence amidst the snow, suppressing the searing pain in his chest, refusing to let it escape his throat.
Beside the village, a vast forest of fir trees stood like towering tombstones, pointing to the gray, cold sky. Only the endless snow continued to fall, indifferent and silent, as if intent on burying everything beneath it.
“Look!” Suddenly, he heard cries of surprise from his subordinates. They all raised their heads, staring at the sky.
He, too, unconsciously looked up.
For a moment, his breath caught in his throat—
Beneath the gray-white sky, a vast, unbounded light suddenly swept across the horizon. It radiated from the distant north, enveloping the sky over the Mohe River, dancing lightly over the swirling snow, its colors shifting one by one: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet… It fell upon the desolate cemetery like a sudden, fleeting dream.
“Light.”
—Under the miraculous power of nature, the young Holy Leader knelt in the snow, slowly raising his hands to the sky.
Postscript:
I traveled a thousand miles to bid you farewell.On the first and the last snowy night,We walked side by side across the cold, silent wilderness.All the words we could have said froze on our lips.As we gazed up together, did you see it?Seven nights of snow bloomed and withered,Like the brief moments of our reunion and our eternal parting.Please forgive me as I turn to leave at this moment—For the desolation of the years,For my inability to hold on,And for the deepest love that could not withstand the passage of time.Cang YueFebruary 20, 2006 – May 26, 2006, Hangzhou
[The End]
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